Ch 14: My Disabled Virtual Lover’s Healing Diary

Because she had stayed up too late the night before, when Qian Yuan entered the game the next day, Cen Han had already finished his morning classes and come home for lunch.

Yesterday it had snowed heavily all day. The snow on the streets outside was high enough to cover a person’s foot. But early that morning, the low-level junk-recycling robots had already cleared a narrow road.

Since one of the city’s junkyards sat right in the slums, there were plenty of robots there, which allowed Cen Han to travel smoothly.

Normally, whenever he returned from school, his mood value in the diary would plummet. But this day was different—the numbers stayed green.

Qian Yuan patted his small shoulder while he tinkered with a broken mechanical part, tilting her head curiously, trying to communicate with him telepathically.

But clearly, he couldn’t follow her train of thought.

The little ghost clung to his shoulder, poking her round head forward, eyes bright with curiosity. The moment she appeared, Cen Han slipped on his optic membrane. He frowned slightly, then glanced at the mess of mechanical fragments and tools scattered across the desk. After a moment, he seemed to understand something.

He leaned over, fetched a beginner’s mechanics book from the cabinet, and handed it to the ghost.

“This one is easier to follow,” he said briefly, rubbing at his temple. “You can read it.”

Then he paused, tilted his head, and gestured with his chin at a new cardboard box sitting in the corner. “Zhang San told me to meet him tomorrow night at the black market. I had him sell some parts for me. You… don’t need to go find food anymore.”

—He was the only one who could see the ghost. Though he had no idea how it managed to bring food, he guessed it wasn’t easy.

His voice carried a trace of fatigue as he spoke, his dumpling face stern. Then he turned back to his repairs. Qian Yuan, meanwhile, looked blankly at the book suddenly shoved into her arms, tilting her head in confusion.

…The child in the game telling her not to raise him? What was she supposed to do with that? Online now, waiting for urgent answers.

And this book—what did he mean by this? Forcing a high-school dropout to read textbooks inside a game was seriously too much.

Qian Yuan muttered inwardly.

Still, curiosity won out. She opened the book.

Its material was special—like colored glass, but soft and thin, smooth to the touch. The printed words shimmered faintly at the edges.

Perhaps in this game, books weren’t made from wood. Which wasn’t surprising—this was a game, after all. Strange rules were everywhere.

She skimmed through a few pages and quickly felt overwhelmed.

Clearly, the writers had studied their sci-fi carefully. The text was well-constructed, but crammed with technical jargon she couldn’t understand.

She put down the “celestial scripture,” and to reassure herself she still knew how to read, quietly opened Cen Han’s diary.

【November 6, 4:00 AM】
【Cen Han went to the junkyard.】
【Cen Han collected scraps.】

【November 6, 5:30 AM】
【Cen Han built mechanical parts from scraps.】
【Cen Han repaired fragments.】

【November 6, 7:00 AM】
【Cen Han waited at the intersection.】
【Cen Han kept sneezing. He might have caught a cold.】

【November 6, 7:30 AM】
【Cen Han met Zhang San.】
【Cen Han went to school.】

…

The diary continued for a long way, but Qian Yuan no longer had the mood to read.

Her eyes widened at the snow-mud stuck to the wheels of his chair, then at the mechanical scraps in his hands.

She’d logged off at 2 AM. Cen Han had gone scavenging at 4 AM. Did that mean he hadn’t slept at all—or just two hours?

No wonder his voice had sounded so off earlier, so tired. After staying up, he’d still waited outside in the freezing cold with thin clothes…

Qian Yuan frowned deeply.

The next second, Cen Han suddenly froze mid-action at the desk.

A hand reached from the side, tilting his chin toward it. The touch wasn’t forceful, but he instinctively wanted to turn away—yet his eyes couldn’t escape the ghost’s expression.

It was a smiling face, but with drooping corners, almost crestfallen. And somehow… worried.

…Worried?

Was it worried about him?

The ghost’s mouth opened and closed silently, as if speaking. After a moment, it released him and darted across the room.

Cen Han’s black eyes followed, lips pressed tight.

…If only he could hear it.

The thought surfaced unbidden. He caught himself, startled by his own greed. But like a sprout touched by rain, it grew instantly, unstoppable.

A screw slipped from his fingers, clinking against the desk. He quickly pinned it down, distracted.

…Why couldn’t he hear it?

He sat silent, lost in thought—until the ghost came huffing back and shoved something into his hand.

He looked down. A bottle of nutrient fluid.

The cardboard box he’d pointed at earlier had been opened. The ghost pressed one hand on the table, the other on his chair, its bright eyes locked on him.

It didn’t speak, but Cen Han inexplicably understood.

It had seen his exhaustion and wanted him to replenish his strength.

“…”

Outside, clouds scattered, and soft midday light spilled inside. Cen Han froze for an instant. A strange feeling rose to his tongue, but he forced it down.

He lowered his gaze abruptly, lashes trembling as if to hide something. Almost nervously, he began: “I…”

But he never finished.

The ghost seemed to remember something, gave a look of sudden realization, and took the bottle back—then opened it.

It leaned closer, raising the mouth of the bottle to his lips.

As if about to feed him.

Cen Han: “…”

His complicated thoughts evaporated. His face went blank.

Why did this ghost always try to feed him? As if… as if he were a little child.

…

His throat bobbed faintly.

Since the day he became self-aware, no one had fed him.

Even three years ago, when he’d barely survived and lay in the hospital swaddled in bandages, he had never allowed anyone to feed him.

But sometimes, a single familiar gesture could trigger everything. Memories never forgotten replayed.

“Eat a little, please. You can’t go on like this. Just eat a little…”

The boy, swathed in thick bandages, sat up in bed and hysterically slapped away his mother’s food tray.

Outside the hospital, reporters blocked the entrance, their voices sharp and cold as they rose into the air, seeping up into the fourth-floor ward.

Eyes peered through the glass in the door, whispering indistinctly, their stares heavy with suspicion.

And after discharge—came the interrogation.

“What do you know about your father’s treason? Did he ever mention his plans?”
“You were on the ship at the time—why were you there? What were you doing?”
“You were the only survivor of the explosion. How did you escape? Did your father arrange your escape?”

Suspicion and scrutiny left him nowhere to hide under glaring spotlights. Imperial officers looked down on him coldly, while lie-detecting robots strode closer, blue, emotionless eyes reflected on his despairing face.

“Inject him. Start the machine—”

“Snap.”

A crisp sound. Cen Han jolted awake, pupils refocusing, expression calm again. He saw the ghost lowering the empty bottle from his lips and turning on the lamp.

Its glow was warm and soft—worlds apart from the cold light of machines.

The bottle was empty. Somehow, without realizing, he had let it feed him again.

And then, it had even patted his hair, as if rewarding a child for eating obediently.

“…”

Color flushed faintly across his pale face. A hint of frustration flickered in his dark eyes.

Silent for a long time, he finally sighed softly, almost mocking himself, pressing his knuckle against his brow.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦋་༘࿐